Relief pulled across my shoulders.
“You’ll do it then,” I verified.
She shook her head in exasperation, answering, “Of course I’ll do it. My God, I wish I could do this for all of my families. This is an incredible gift.”
“Just make sure they don’t know it’s from me.”
Her lips pressed into a tight thin line.
Fuck.
“I don’t like doing that,” she informed quietly. “And I really think they should know where this kind of money is coming from. They will want to thank you—”
“They can thank me by taking the money,” I cut in brusquely.
“Brian,” she pleaded. “I really think—”
“Please,” I growled through my teeth. “Do not tell them.”
Mona flinched at my tone, closed her eyes, and nodded quickly.
Fuck.
I hated getting on her like that. She didn’t deserve it.
I reached out and placed my hand on top of one of hers and squeezed, prompting her eyes to open.
“Appreciate you doing this and everything else. Means a lot,” I said. “Knowing how you feel about what I’m doing, that means something, too.”
Her mouth relaxed and lifted softly.
“You’re a good man, Brian. I hope one day you’ll believe that.”
I gave an easy smile to appease her. I needed to get going and I had zero fucking time to argue that one.
Pulling back, I dropped my head into a nod.
“Thanks again,” I said.
Mona gave me one last smile.
Then I turned without giving that bag another thought and got the hell out of there.
* * *
I knocked again on the front door, this time a little louder, and stepped back, waiting to be let inside.
A muffled yell came from Tori’s house. I couldn’t make out what Syd was saying and I knew it was Syd since she was the only one here, her car being the only one in the driveway, so I tested the knob and it turned willingly, allowing me to ease the door open and step inside.
“Syd,” I called out, shutting the door behind me as my eyes scanned the room.
Tori’s house was fucking impressive. On the smaller side, but you could tell there was a lot of money in it and not just because of the ocean view.
The decorating was some fancy shit.
It reminded me of Jamie’s parents’ house. Everything was either dark oak or leather, and the art hanging on the walls looked like something Oliver or Liv could’ve painted, which meant it wasn’t just fancy shit, it was expensive shit.
“I’m in here! And I’m stressing out so just get back in your car and go home! This was a huge mistake!”
Laughing, I moved through the living room and around the corner where the noise was coming from.
It couldn’t have been that bad.
Syd was in the kitchen at the stove, bent at the waist with her head in the oven as thick smoke billowed out around her and into the air.
It was that bad.
“Shit!” she yelled, pulling a dish out and sitting it on the burner. She kicked the door closed and waved her hands over the charred remains, murmuring, “No no no no.”
“Babe.”
The smoke detector sounded loudly from the hallway.
“Oh, God, not again,” Syd groaned, covering her face.
Jesus. She was definitely stressing.
I fought a smile as I grabbed a dish towel off the counter, moved out of the room, and stood below the detector, reached up, disabled it, then took the towel and fanned the air to clear the smoke so it wouldn’t go off again.
When I stepped back into the kitchen, Syd was still standing at the stove, facing it with her head down, only now she was massaging her temples.
I came up behind her, wrapped my arm around her apron-covered waist, pulled her back against me, and dropped my head beside hers, breathing in the apple-scented shampoo she used in her hair.
“I don’t know what I did,” she admitted in a small voice, lowering her arms and gesturing at the dish, which at this point was unrecognizable, blackened, and still smoking.
I couldn’t make out what she was going for.
“I followed the recipe perfectly, double-checking my steps and the ingredients before mixing everything together, and I know I set the oven temperature right. I triple-checked that.”
I kissed her temple.
“What were you making?”
“Homemade chicken potpie with all kinds of yummy veggies and spices, all beautifully contained in a made-from-scratch pie dough.”
Shit. That sounded really fucking good.
She sighed in defeat, then said on a whisper, “I wanted to do this for you so bad, and I’ve messed it up.”
I gave her a squeeze, let her go, then moved to the counter where she had mixing bowls, cutting boards, and measuring spoons laid out, found the recipe she had printed, and picked it up, reading the cooking instructions.
“You take it out after forty-five minutes?” I asked, looking over at Wild.
She slowly turned her head.
“Forty-five minutes?” she echoed with a suspicious pout. “No. Why would I do that?”
“’Cause that’s the cooking time.”
“What? No it isn’t!”
She eliminated the space between us in three quick steps, yanked the recipe out of my hand while pulling a pair of red-framed glasses out of the front pocket of her apron and sliding them up her nose, then began scanning the paper frantically.
Glasses like that would be cute on anyone else.